


a game is not a law

by vasnormandy



Series: in this maze of leaves and lovely blood [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, i'll add to the tags as new elements come into play, the first of three...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vasnormandy/pseuds/vasnormandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the north, the young wolf marches an army of his bannermen towards king's landing; in the furthest reaches of the south, a dornish hand pens letters, sealing alliances and marriages alike with a single stroke; in the shadowy halls of the red keep, a nightingale keeps secrets that could shake the realm sealed away behind her lips. || a dragon age au set in the world of george r.r. martin's "a song of ice and fire," concerning the events of the seven kingdoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

in my austere black uniform  
i raised the banner  
which decreed _hope_  
and which did not succeed  
and which is not allowed.  
now i must confront the angel  
who says _win_ ,  
who tells me to wave any banner  
that you will follow.

-          margaret atwood, _crow song_

 

* * *

 

**ALISTAIR**

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the war camp, the snow, the battered soldiers, a man sits in a patch of dry ground, pushing a small stone around with a stick.

A productive use of time, he knows, but he hasn’t anything better to do. The armory is organized, the swords sharp; the tents are all set up in their rows, their sprawling patterns. And he’s too bloody southron for the northmen to trust him with any tasks of greater importance than sharpening blades, cleaning armor, and putting up tents. Essie’s working on it.

He pushes the stone in a wide circle. He’s been here a while now, waiting near the king’s tent for the strategy meeting within to end, and he’s only been disturbed once. It had been one of House Mormont’s men, a soldier – he hadn’t know the man’s name, but the man knew his. He’d leaned over him, sneered down at his pebble, and asked, “Don’t you have something you ought to be doing, Waters?” He’d spat the bastard name out like it was poison, and Alistair suspected his disgust had more to do with the location the surname indicated than the low birth.

He’d shaken his head. “Nothing I’m allowed to do needs doing.”

“So you play with a rock?” The man had scoffed. “Have a drink with a friend, or…” His sneer had widened. “Do you have any friends, Waters? Besides the Cousland wench.”

“She has a name.”

“Aye. And if I could ever get that armor off of her, I’d mighty like to hear her scream it.”

“Scream her own name?”

The man had flushed, but recovered quickly. “Shut it. Either way. Would like to get her out of it. A woman in armor is an unnatural thing.”

“Mmm,” Alistair had hummed, pushing the rock away from him in a straight line. “I’ll tell your Lady Mormont you said that.”

The man had flushed brighter, face tightened in irritation, and for a moment Alistair had thought he might actually strike him. But he only huffed angrily, bit out, “Have fun with your rock, bastard,” and stormed off.

Stupid man. Alistair has never said a word to Lady Mormont - either of them - and likely never will. He has Essie’s ear, but she is the full extent of the list of noblewomen he can say that much about. And he’s not going to bother her with the soldier’s jibes. He knows she hears more than enough from his kind.

She does not lack for timing – just as his thoughts turn to her, the flap of the king’s tent is thrown open. Smalljon Umber emerges first, but her diminutive figure is close behind his vast one – hand resting on her sword’s hilt, her armor glinting as she steps out into the sun. Most of her pale blonde curls are knotted, per usual, into a tight bun high on her head, but as she comes out of the tent, the snow-specked wind picks up the sparse strands framing her wide face and sets them dancing. Hair as fair as hers is a rarity in the stone-skinned, raven-haired northern provinces – her mother was of a southron family, Tyrell bannermen, and unlike her appropriately dark-haired elder brother, she takes after her completely. In candlelight, in darkened hours, when she lets it hang in unkempt rings at her cheeks, it is as molten gold; now, in the cold northern sun, it is hard and bleached, gold-tinted steel. He has always found her beautiful for it, and he knows he is not alone.

He rises to his feet, moves to step towards her, but before he can, the Young Wolf emerges from the tent behind her. Alistair remains where he is, watching from afar as she lightly takes hold of King Robb’s arm to stop him in his path, tilts her head up to him to say something intended only for him. He nods at her counsel, says something in reply; she releases his arm, and he goes on his way, with Lady Dacey hot on his heels.

Again, Alistair starts to step forward, but the Smalljon has her attention before he comes anywhere near her. He leans low to her, mutters something, and she laughs, clear and loud. She has not seen him; she is turning to walk with the Smalljon; and, gnawing uncertainly on his lip, Alistair calls after her.

“My Lady Esther!” Her name is lovely in his mouth, musical – but he never uses it, but for when other lords or ladies are in earshot, but for moments when the formality befitting her station and his must be observed. He loves her given name, but he knows all too well how much she hates it.

She turns at his call, and he sees a small smile cross her face. Quickly, she turns back to the Smalljon; he can see her lips moving as she speaks fast, probably making some excuse, and a moment later she is jogging across the thing film of snow on the hard, frozen earth to him.

“Ser Waters,” she acknowledges, a teasing tone in her voice on the title – he is no knight.

“My lady,” he replies, his mouth turning up in a frankly foolish grin. “I – erm. Walk with me?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

They set off across the camp, and oh, he’d like to loop his arm around her lower back, hold her firmly to his side as they walk, his hand large on her hip. The power in her stride, the way she walks like she knows the ground is coming up to meet her feet rather than the other way around – the way her eyes search out the horizon, always, like her heart is stretching out to the furthest reaches of her wanderings, or perhaps seeking out home – the warm brown irises in her steely eyes… she transfixes him. But she keeps an appropriate distance between them, and he keeps his hands to himself.

“How are you enjoying the war camps, Ser?” she inquires. Her voice is smooth as honey, light as wind, sweet as a singer in a great high hall.

“They’re cold,” he admits, and then remembers to add, “my lady.”

She smiles. “Highever was further north than this.”

“Yes, my lady,” he agrees, “but Highever had walls.” That calls up a laugh from her lungs, so he continues, “And hearths. With warm fires, and soft blankets, and a warm kitchen, with plenty of hot food…”

“Don’t start,” she bursts out between giggles.

“What?” he exclaims – indignant, innocent.

“You know what.” She shakes her head. “Nan hated you more than she hated my hound. That is quite the accomplishment.”

“I like to think so.” He grins. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“You can’t keep secrets from me, Alistair.”

“Fair,” he replies, but he leans in to speak in her ear all the same. “All my antagonizing of your cook?”

“Mmm?”

“Deliberate. A carefully concocted plot to spare your beloved dog the bulk of her wrath.”

Another laugh breaks free from her lips, and she ducks her head, gasps for air. “For which Ser Ruffington and I thank you,” she says breathlessly. “How can I ever hope to repay you?”

“I can think of some ways.” They’ve reached the outskirts of the camp, they’re nearing the edge, and there is no one in sight. He glances briefly back the way they’ve come, just to ensure that they are not under the prying gaze of any northern soldiers, before he reaches out to wrap his hand around her wrist and pulls her off the path, to hide between two empty tents.

There is a tree, and Essie backs herself up against it, pulls him after her – somehow she has turned the tables already, so that she is leading him, and he should not be surprised. Her hand finds the back of his head, the nape of his neck, and applies just enough pressure to urge him downwards, and he obliges, dipping his head to meet her mouth with his.

He kisses her hard and hot, his breath warm in their mouths, her lips warm between her wind-chilled cheeks. Her armor clatters softly as he holds her flush against the trunk of the tree, and he almost laughs – there are certainly much easier outfits to kiss a woman wearing. The silks and furs she preferred home at Highever did not restrict mobility the way her heavy silver-plated armor does, with its large adorning shoulder plates; with the substantial weight of it; with its solid breastplate elegantly engraved with decorative patterns befitting her birth, with the mabari hound sigil of House Cousland serving as a beautifully crafted reminder of why he cannot kiss her but for here, hidden from sight. He is venturing far above his birth, he knows – and aside from that, he is aware that her sword is well within her reach, and more than aware of how proficient she is with it, but in his mind there is no fear. There is only her.

“You look beautiful today,” he murmurs against her lips.

A furrow presses itself into her brow. “I look the same as I do every day.”

“Yes,” he agrees, and resumes kissing her.

She bends beneath him; she is as water, flowing, rising up to meet him. His hands are on her hips, the hollows of her sides, her back, her jawline, her cheeks. Her fingers are in his hair, but he is careful not to ruin hers.

He kisses her until she breaks away, wriggling to escape from where she stands, pressed between him and the trunk of the tree. “I should go,” she mumbles – an apology. “We’re riding out with King Robb.”

“When?”

“As soon as the horses are saddled.”

He sighs. “Send Fergus.”

“My lord brother has matters of his own to attend to.” She straightens her armor. “And the king prefers my company.”

A hum from the back of his throat. “Does he.”

She laughs, lifts a gloved hand to his cheek – just for a moment, just until the crease in his forehead disappears. “Relax,” she encourages. “His Grace is a man wed.”

“Kings do as they will.” He huffs. “You know, you would make a good queen.”

“I’ve no doubt that I would,” she says, “but to my mother’s great dismay, I have never desired to marry a Stark.” She smiles up at him, and when he smiles back, she lifts onto her toes to kiss him, quick and chaste. “I’ll return soon.”

She steps out past him, out of the shelter, the hiding place between the tents. “Be careful,” he says to her back.

“I always am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it was about time I actually started posting this. I don't know how often I'll be updating, since my intention is to post the new chapters for all three fics at the same time - which means any given update required writing three chapters, not one - but I have a few written in the buffer for each of the fics and exam season is finishing up over here, so we should be good.  
> A few notes regarding how this series is to be read that I'll put in the notes of all three fics:  
> -The three fics in this series occur simultaneously. They are separated by location: the Seven Kingdoms, Essos, and the land beyond the Wall. Currently, each fic has four narrators who chapters will alternate between.  
> -All three fics (hopefully) will be updated simultaneously and are meant to be read simultaneously. However, I'm endeavoring to write them such in a way that this is not required. You'll probably get the most out of them by reading all three at the same time, but you shouldn't have to read the other two in order to enjoy and understand the events of any given one.  
> -I'm putting archive warnings for violence and character death on all three fics because hey, it's Game of Thrones. People are going to die. It may be that four people die in the fic set beyond the Wall and none die in the Free Cities, but I'm going to put the archive warnings on all three. Just in case.  
> -The prologue work is pure exposition. If you want to be introduced to Leliana's part early and get a sense of the state of the world, you may want to glance at it, but it's not required reading.  
> -I'm working with three of my protags in this fic - Esther Cousland, Maribel Hawke, and Liranen Lavellan. All three are point of view characters in the fics they're part of.


	2. Chapter 2

**JOSEPHINE**

 

* * *

 

The scratch of her quill against parchment is familiar music. She writes carefully – being quite proficient at multitasking, she is capable of scribing and conversing all at once, but when she was younger, she would sometimes make mistakes while attempting to do as much, accidentally write down what she heard instead of what she’d planned. The things she writes these days are too important for such silly slips.

“And he plans to bring half Dorne’s nobility with him,” the princess is saying from across the room, where she sits before Josephine’s vanity, her favorite handmaiden forcing her dark tangle of hair into something elegant. “And Ellaria, of course. That is, if my father consents to send him in his place. Not his daughters, however. It is odd.”

“It is wise,” Josephine counters. The quill scratches across the page. “King’s Landing is unstable at best, and it surely cannot be said to currently be at its best. The Sand Snakes are… an aggravating presence.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “They take after their father.”

“Which, I suspect, is why _your_ father has yet to consent to send him in his stead.”

The princess meets her eyes for a moment in the mirror and then looks away. “My uncle will do nothing to upset the… _unstable_ nature of King’s Landing.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing undeserved.”

Josephine makes a soft _tsk_ ing sound. “An action may be deserved, Princess, but that does not make it wise.”

The handmaiden has finished, and she scampers back as Arianne Martell rises to her feet, glorious in her papery blue gown with regal trappings in her tamed hair. She picks up a bracelet in the shape of a coiled snake from the vanity, slides it over her wrist and up to her upper arm, and then turns to face the Lady Ambassador.

“Your reason begins to perturb me, Josephine,” she chimes, slinking across the room to the desk. “Take care, or I am like to forget how dear you are.” She leans across the table to quickly kiss Josephine’s cheek; when she rises again, she waves a dismissing hand to her handmaiden, and the girl clutches her hairbrush to her chest as she bows low and flees the room.

A few oiled curls had fallen as Arianne leaned down, and now she tosses them back over her shoulder. “I will be riding out with the little princess this afternoon,” she declares. “If you happen to see a cousin of mine, inform her. She is welcome to join us.”

“Riding with Princess Myrcella?” Josephine echoes, her tone near-conspiratorial. “Or her dashing Kingsguard?”

A sly, wicked smile turns Princess Arianne’s dark lips upward. “Allow a woman her secrets, Josephine,” she simpers, and with a singing laugh, she saunters out.

Josephine is smiling as she returns to the letter on her desk. She knows, of course, of the princess’s secret tryst with noble Arys Oakheart. She makes a point of knowing most things, and she has a very dear friend who makes a point of knowing everything.

Her chambers are rarely peaceful for long; she has scarcely polished off the letter, scrawled her signature at the bottom, and affixed the folded parchment with the seal of House Martell when the door is thrown open, and the very topic of her conversation with Arianne strides inside. The Red Viper of Dorne is striking in a tunic the color of sand, his eyes flashing like the sun off the dunes, and his bravado carries him through the door a foot taller than he truly stands. He pauses when he reaches the center of the room, sniffs, and inquires, “Do I smell hair oils?”

“Your niece,” Josephine replies simply. “Can I do something for you, Prince Oberyn?”

He comes to her desk, snatching up the sealed letter and lifting it to his eye. “What’s this?”

“A letter.” She lifts her hand, palm up, and beckons with her fingers to bid him give it back.

He doesn’t. “A letter to whom?”

“The crown.”

“That mighty bastard, who lounges atop mountains of Lannister shit?” He sets the letter down in her hand. “I cannot imagine he makes for interesting conversation.”

“It’s – arrangements,” she explains. “For Trystane’s wedding to the Princess Myrcella.”

Prince Oberyn makes a face. “One royal wedding in the making at a time is not enough?”

“They are, shall we say… in the mood,” she replies. “And though our prince and their princess will not wed for years yet, an affair of such political importance must be carefully planned. That is not to mention the monetary concerns.”

He shakes his head. “Lady Montilyet,” he declares. “What would Dorne do without you?”

“No doubt you would have to manage your own affairs,” she says, idly neatening her desk. “I cannot conceive of the horror.”

“Nor can I,” Oberyn agrees. “Would you walk with me, Josephine?”

For a moment, she glances uncertainly between the prince and the letter. She had intended to send it off immediately, but instead she nods, rising to her feet. It is not urgent. She opens the lid of the fine wooden box on her desk and sets the sealed parchment down within it. It is a lovely chest – barely larger than a book, crafted of fine northern wood. Not ironwood, not especially valuable, but a rarity in sun-scorched Dorne. It is, truly, the carvings which make it marvelous. The wood has been sanded to softness, and the edges are framed by etched geometrics. The sigil of House Montilyet, a symbol rarely seen these days, adorns the lid: a brave boat cutting the waves, large and beautiful and expertly carved. She adores it; she likes to run her finger across the dips and ridges in the wood, the shape of her name cut lovingly into the base. She own it in addition to, and not in place of, a lockbox, and any truly important documents she will lock up safe and sound – but for those requiring less security, less discretion, she prefers to make use of the wooden box.

She lowers the lid delicately, reverently, and looks up at Oberyn. “I would be delighted to.”

Josephine follows the prince from her chambers, through the halls of Sunspear to a balcony looking out over the sand. It ripples in the wind like the waves of a vast, golden sea, and the sun beats down on the dunes and sets them alight.

“Beautiful,” Oberyn muses, and she nods her agreement. Dorne, in all its splendor, is the only home she knows, and the only one she cares to know; she has traveled, but she always returns to its sunbaked sands.

“Two of my daughters are in the castle for a time,” he tells her. “You have met Tyene and Nymeria, yes?”

“Several times.” Nymeria’s intensity intimidates her, if she is entirely honest, but she does like Tyene quite a bit. She is always good for conversation, and her wit is as sharp as her sisters’ blades.

“I thought as much.” He takes a long breath, exhales calmly. “Though I did not ask you here to discuss my daughters.”

“I thought as much,” she replies, echoing him, and he smiles.

“Perhaps you have heard,” he begins, “that my brother fears he will not be able to attend good King Joffrey’s wedding.”

“And that he is considering sending you in his stead,” Josephine supplements.

He nods, entirely unsurprised and unimpressed by her knowledge. “He has yet to decide.”

“Perhaps because he has met you,” she suggests, and he chuckles.

“Yes, perhaps,” he agrees, “though he has little choice. Sending anything less than a prince of Dorne will seem to the crown an insult.”

“That had occurred to me.”

“I have been contemplating my envoy, should my brother permit me to attend.”

Josephine laughs. “Half of Dorne’s nobility, if your niece is to be believed.”

“Ah, my niece.” He chuckles again. “She resents that I have not included her.”

“Does she want to go to the wedding?” She had never gotten the impression that Arianne particularly desired to leave Dorne.

“I do not know if she has any interest in the wedding,” Oberyn replies, “but she dislikes being passed over. She is… slighted.”

“She is heir to Dorne,” Josephine reasons. “Her place is here.”

“I know that,” he agrees, “and she knows that. But Arianne is as fiery as the sun, Josephine. She wants what she wants.” He pauses a moment, and then adds, “I would like you to accompany me.”

That gives her a moment’s pause. “I – me?”

He laughs. “Yes, you, Josephine. I do enjoy your company.”

“I should hope you are not selecting members of your diplomatic envoy solely on the basis of how thoroughly you enjoy them.”

“Not solely, but perhaps in part. I enjoy Ellaria quite thoroughly.” He must see color flooding her cheeks, because he laughs. “Josephine, you are a diplomat by trade. Knowledgeable in all the ways of politics and court intrigue. My most trusted ambassador.”

“Flatterer.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” Another laugh. “We Martells know as well as anyone – the political waters of the Red Keep are as perilous as the waves and storms of the sea.”

“More so,” she corrects.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I see no reason I should not keep the company of one so experienced in the ways of seafaring. What are the words of your House?”

A small smile presses a dent into her cheek. “From sea to shore, we tame the waves.”

“Exactly.” He pauses for a moment. “And besides that, it is my understanding that you have… a friend at court.”

“I am acquainted with a number of people in the Red Keep,” she confirms, with a small frown.

“One in particular,” he says. “A sister, perhaps?”

Oh. That makes more sense, then. “You want her favor,” she deduces. “Her aid, perhaps?”

“Both,” he replies, “if I can have them.”

“I cannot promise either. Her heart is good, but her loyalties…”

“I understand.” He turns his gaze finally from the Dornish landscape, looking instead upon her. “You have not left home in many years, Josephine. Would you travel again? Would you wade into these treacherous waters at my side?”

She hesitates. She loves Dorne, and she loves the safety of Dorne; she does not miss the danger of days long past, but oh, she misses all the rest of it. It has been far too long since she last laid eyes on Westeros’s shining citadel – or on her.

She catches the fabric of her skirt between her fingers as she dips into a curtsy. “My prince,” she says, “it would be my honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about two weeks since I posted the first part of this and I think that's the schedule I'm going to try to keep to. So unless the speed at which I'm writing these chapters increases significantly, you can probably expect an update around every two weeks. Probably.  
> Also, one thing I think I neglected to mention: although I may be twisting the canon timeline of ASOIAF a little bit to keep the three fics in sync, we're pretty much starting around midway through A Storm of Swords - or, for you show-watchers, Season 3.


	3. Chapter 3

**ESTHER**

 

* * *

 

She has been too long in heavy armor. Her brother’s squire helped her remove it when she returned with the king from Riverrun, taking each thick silver piece from her body to be polished and providing her with a slim-fitting tunic and pants in its place, as he had each night of this campaign. Every evening, it is a little bit less comfortable. She rolls her shoulders back, acutely aware of just how vulnerable she is. One well-placed blow…

Well, it is somewhat better than it was before Fergus insisted that the men listen to her refusal to wear a dress in a war camp. She has no issue with the things – she quite likes them, in fact – but there is a time and a place.

She stiffens at the touch of a strong hand on her hip, but relaxes as its owner dips his head to press a kiss to the curve of her neck. It is Alistair, she reminds herself. Only Alistair. She is vulnerable here, yes, without her armor, with her sword resting on the ground out of her immediate reach – _a blade you can’t get to, pup_ , she hears her father say, smiling at her across the yard in Highever with a wooden practice sword in his hand and a smaller one in hers, _is no blade at all. Keep your shield up, pup, that’s it._ Yes, she is unprotected, and the smallest knife driven upward between her ribs would be the end of her, but she is safe. She is in her own tent, surrounded by her own men, in the heart of her king’s war camp. And Alistair is with her. She is safe.

He hums quietly against her skin, trailing light kisses up to her jaw. “Long day?” he murmurs.

She gives a sound of assent in reply, letting her head drop to the side to give his mouth easier access.

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.” She turns; expertly, he keeps his hands encircling her hips as she does, and she rises onto the tips of her toes to reach his lips. If this flimsy outfit has any advantage over her armor, it is that it certainly does provide significantly improved maneuverability when kissing.

He walks the two of them to her bedroll, pulls her down after him, and she stifles a laugh when he nearly trips and sends them both toppling to the ground. He does not set to work undoing the buttons of her tunic – rather, he tucks his legs to his side and sits, pulls her to him to lean back comfortably against his chest. Her eyes close as she settles against him, and he works his fingers into her hair, gently undoing the bun-like braided coils she has forced it into today.

“What news from the front?” he inquires.

She hums. “Edmure Tully’s coming to his senses,” she replies. “Maybe.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe.” Her chest rises, falls in a sigh. “I don’t want to talk about Edmure Tully.”

“Alright.” He brushes his lips against her jawline, just below her ear; he pulls the last pin from her hair, and it tumbles down, steel-blonde curls set alight by candlelight. “What do you want to talk about?”

Another hum, this one in consideration. “Anything,” she responds. “I don’t know. Tell me something nice.”

She can hear, through the fabric of her tent, the activity of the camp, and if she were loud enough the camp would be able to hear her just as well. Honestly, with the number of nights Alistair spends here, she sometimes thinks it a wonder that they have not yet been found out and confronted. At the thought, a note of resentment pulls at her heart – not for him, of course, never for him, and not even for the Cousland soldiers populating the camp around them, but for her sex, for the unfairness encountered on account of it. Fergus is a man wed, but were he to be found abed with a bastard woman, there would be no public retribution. Some might think less of him, and Oriana may never forgive him, but he would not be ruined. People would shake their heads, cursing man’s urges, his fallibility, but never cursing Fergus. But if she were to be found with Alistair? A tryst with any man would make her a pariah. A tryst with one so lowborn would make her unmarriageable.

Alistair brushes his fingers tenderly through her hair, dragging it back from one side so he can dip his head to kiss her neck again. “I love you,” he whispers – not for the first time, with his breath hot against the shell of her ear – and she shivers.

Her reputation be damned. Give her a bastard boy in her bed; she wants no highborn lord.

She tips her head back, turns it just enough to look him in the eye. “Are you saying that to tell me something nice, or just to say it?”

“Mmm. Both.” His hand starts at her cheek and runs along her jawline, stops with his thumb beneath her chin; he tilts her face upward, and she shifts against him so that she can turn her head enough to kiss him. “And?” he inquires, once she’s pulled back.

“And…” she echoes, and then laughs. “Alistair, you can’t ask me to say that I love you, too. That’s not how it works.”

“Essie. I need constant reassurance you don’t secretly hate me.”

“If I did, what would I be doing here?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Sparing my feelings? They’re quite delicate, you know.”

She laughs again. “Ask my brother, he’ll tell you I’ve never spared anyone’s feelings in my life.” She lifts her head to kiss him again, briefly. “No, I don’t secretly hate you. And yes, I love you, too.”

He exhales. “Right. That’s good, then.”

“Is it?” she inquires, adopting a teasing tone.

“Yes,” he says; he kisses her forehead as she moves against him again. “Very.”

She settles in his arms once more, her head coming to rest against his collar, and he resumes combing her hair with his fingers. “Is it?” she says again, and this time her voice is much less lighthearted, much less sure.

The movement of his hand through her hair falters, and she can practically feel the frown that presses itself into his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing, it’s…” She draws in a long breath, lets it hiss out slowly through her teeth. “Alistair, where are we going with this?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Dorne, maybe.”

That elicits a soft laugh from her. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Sun, sand... paramours…”

She shakes her head, giving another silent laugh. “You’d be mine?”

“I’m not opposed to the idea.” She feels the warmth of a kiss atop the crown of her head. “But really – anywhere. I don’t care. So long as you’re there.”

A long breath. “Wouldn’t you be happier with someone you didn’t have to keep a secret?”

“Wouldn’t you?” He winds a bit of her hair around his fingers as though to wrap it into tighter curls before letting it spring loose. “I don’t care about that. This is enough.”

“Is it?”

“For me? Yes.” His breathing slows, and he dips his head; she can feel the heat of his breath against her ear. “Esther,” he murmurs, “I would marry you tomorrow if I could. But so long as I cannot… this is enough. You are… so much more than enough.”

She breathes deeply, steadily. “Good,” she whispers.

“Is it? For you, I mean. I mean – if it’s not –”

“Yes.” The answer vocalizes itself faster than she’d meant it to, but as soon as it does she knows that it is true. “It’s… you’re not what I would’ve expected. But yes.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not as though I saw you coming, either.” He shakes his head. “Remember, I _was_ on my way to swear off women forever.”

A laugh, loud and real this time, and she looks up into his face, recalls the first time she saw it. It was evening; night was falling, and she had been out riding for hours. Her parents and her brother knew her well enough that they would not be too concerned should she not return until dark, but she was turning her horse to return to the castle when a stranger astride a horse barely larger than a pony approached. He was lowborn at first glance, red-haired and poorly armored with a face that badly needed shaving, but she thought him handsome, if a little odd; his accent marked him as a southerner, but he was nothing but polite as he calmly inquired as to whether or not he was headed toward Castle Black. _He called me “my lady” before he ever knew who I was,_ she remembers.

 “Thank the gods for your piss-poor sense of direction,” she jokes.

“I never thought it would be my favorite of my qualities,” he agrees. “But I’m glad for it. I’d much rather be here, with you, than up there in that drafty old castle, with the cold, and the bad food, and the… ice monsters.”

“Ice monsters?”

“You hear stories!”

She giggles. “You never did strike me as the Night’s Watch type.”

“Because I’m not a criminal, or…?”

“Because of the cold,” she says, “and the bad food, and the ice monsters.”

“Oh, now you’re mocking me.” He squishes his face into an exaggerated frown.

“I may be.” Another light laugh. “Really, though. Why take the black? I never asked.”

He shrugs. “I wanted to be a part of something that mattered. But I can do that here. And it’s much better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding, “the distinct lack of ice monsters is one definite advantage.” She hits him, and he makes a sound that’s half a shout and half a lack. “Among others!” he adds quickly, his voice at a notably higher pitch.

She smiles. “Perhaps you ought to get lost more often,” she suggests, “if you enjoy the consequences so much.”

“Trust me, this is the first time,” he insists. “I’d get lost all the time as a boy – you’d understand, really, if you’d grown up in King’s Landing, the streets are like a maze – and oh, there was this time with this enormous cat…” He trails off. “You’re still mocking me.”

“Oh, what gave me away?”

He smiles, shakes his head, pulls her closer to him. “Either way, I don’t think I’ll be getting lost again any time soon. Not on purpose, anyway. I like where I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update. I'm not surprised. Are you guys surprised.
> 
> At any rate, happy 4th to my fellow Americans reading this. Nice to have one day to pretend our country isn't going to shit. Have a chapter of Essie and Alistair being cute. The plot will start moving again in the next update.


	4. Chapter 4

**LELIANA**

 

* * *

 

_Dearest Leliana,_

_You will be interested to know that Prince Doran, out of concern for his health, will not be able to attend the wedding of His Grace King Joffrey Baratheon to the Lady Margaery Tyrell. He deeply regrets his absence, and sends his good wishes and his brother, Prince Oberyn, in his stead. He will bring as his escort no small number of Dornish nobles, as well as his beloved paramour, Ellaria Sand. Fortunately for all of us, I think, his lovely daughters have been left off of the list._

_But here is the most wonderful part, Leliana. He has asked me along! It seems so long since I have left Dorne, and though I love my homeland, I am counting my breaths – each one brings me nearer to the day that I will see the capital again. I look forward to reuniting with you most of all, dear friend. I have sorely missed your company. Even the wild nature of Princess Arianne and the Sand Snakes seems quite tame when I recall the hilarity you would drag me into in our youths!_

_But we have grown from girls into women, Leliana, saddled with duties and burdens our younger selves could scarcely have imagined. I, a respected ambassador; you, keeper of all the secrets in Westeros! I know not what seeing you again after so much time has passed will bring, but I await it eagerly all the same. I dearly hope the great Game has not made us near unrecognizable to one another._

_With love and wishes of fair fortune,_

_Lady Ambassador Josephine Montilyet_

The letter arrived the day before. She recognized the Montilyet seal instantly, but had not had the time to open it until now. All of the Red Keep is in a frenzy, busily preparing for the weddings – both of them. And she is at the heart of it all. Lady Margaery sent that sweet Northerner handmaiden of hers, Mira, along with the first draft of the royal wedding’s seating chart just this morning, with the request that she look it over and sniff out any secrets or scandals that may need to be taken into account – a reason, perhaps, that two guests may need to be placed far apart, or potential allies who may be pleased by seats closer to the front.

She will have to call for Mira, then, and have her bring the draft back to Margaery, to tell her that they will have to account for Prince Oberyn’s party rather than Prince Doran’s. Knowing the brothers, it will no doubt be larger, and much more challenging to contend with; she wishes Josie could have sent along a more comprehensive list of the attendees, anything more than “no small number of Dornish nobles,” but it is likely that she herself does not know every name. She has Oberyn’s favor, but in the Game, favor only takes one so far.

Meanwhile, on her desk, she has three separate drafts of a letter to Walder Frey, each one copied by hand for her by one of Lord Tywin’s maids. The old lion thinks that she is his, and he believes that this grants him some immunity to her tricks; he does not realize how many of the people who are allowed access to him every day are in her pocket. She has not been brought in on this particular secret, this scheme, as of yet, but even if she had not discovered it herself, she has little doubt she would have been brought in on it soon enough. She has made herself invaluable here.

Be it marriage or murder that one is plotting, there is always a need for secrets.

Now, however, is not the time for thoughts of such pomp and circumstance, or such despicable strategy. Now she is smiling to herself as she rereads each word scribed in Josephine’s elegant hand, so lovely and carefully trained – the writing of a woman who knows that in her line of work, a misplaced stroke of ink may seem an insult that could fracture an alliance. Josephine’s stunning intelligence makes itself clear in everything she does, and always in the loveliest ways.

She finds a piece of blank parchment, a quill, and an inkwell, and takes a seat at her desk, quickly clearing a space so that she can write. Deftly, she dips the point of the quill into the ink, and lets it hover for a moment before pressing it into the page and beginning to write.

_My darling Josie,_

_You really needn’t concern yourself with such formality! You write as though I am some nameless noble to be pacified with pretty words and eloquent phrases, and not your longtime partner in crime. I think you have been spending too much time among politicians and not nearly enough among friends. Don’t worry. We may soon remedy this._

_Now, as to the matter of Prince Oberyn’s_

“Lady Nightingale!”

Leliana stills her quill on the page just as she finishes the curve of the S, looking up to the serving girl who has rushed into the room. This is the price she pays for her habit of leaving her door open wide, interruptions such as these, but she is convinced that it is well worth it. She would never tell the nobles who employ her services as much, but her network of secrets and knowledge relies far more on untrained common folk who come forward with whispers they happen to have overheard than it does on professional agents. Many of her would-be informants are timid, too well-trained by a life of low birth to ever be so brazen as to knock at the door of someone they consider above their station. But a door left open wide? Even the humblest of servants feels permitted to step through.

The girl who has interrupted her is young, wide-eyed and prettily dressed – a handmaiden, though to who, Leliana is unsure. Her garb is typical of the girls who serve House Tyrell, but there are many Tyrell ladies in the Capitol these days. She is not one of those who have come to her with rumors and secrets before; she does not know her face, but she will not turn away a potential informant.

She sets her quill down carefully on the desk. “Please.” She gestures to the set of cushioned seats she keeps by the window, rising to her feet. “Sit. There is no need to be frightened of little me.”

The handmaiden is trembling as she makes her way to one of the chairs; Leliana is as composed as ever as she takes a seat opposite her. “It’s – it’s not you that frightens me, my lady.”

“No?” Leliana offers a small smile. “That is refreshing. What is it that frightens you, then?”

She had been holding her hand behind her back; she withdraws it now, extending it toward the spymaster. Her fingers are curled tightly around the shaft of an arrow, and Leliana leans in, her eyes narrowing. It isn’t the sort of arrow that can be found by the hundreds in the Red Keep’s armories, she can see that immediately – the shaft is shorter than is usual, the symmetry of the tip just slightly off, the tail feathers cut from some colorful plumage. And there is a scrap of parchment wrapped tightly around it, bound with red thread – a message?

“May I?” she questions, and the girl nods, opens her hand so that Leliana can take the arrow from her. Carefully, she unties the thread, unwinds the message from the shaft, sets the arrow aside – the parchment springs back into shape as soon as it is freed, and she unrolls it delicately, holding it open to inspect the contents.

Immediately, she has to press her lips tightly together to suppress the giggle that bubbles up to her mouth. She had anticipated some manner of strongly worded threat, but what she finds is smudged ink, a few confusingly phrased sentences which seem to be insults, and more crude drawings than one would expect to fit on a scrap of paper so small. She looks up – the handmaiden seems to have noticed the smile she meant to hide, and is giving her a rather confused look. “What is it about this that has you so worried?”

“I – I didn’t read the letter,” the girl says quickly, defensively. “Didn’t think it my place, see. But – Enna, she found the arrow, and she was right scared, she was. I only came because she was too frightened to, and she’s got Lady Megga all in a fuss now too, and –”

Leliana reaches to lay a hand on the girl’s knee. “Calm yourself, child. Speak slowly. What is your name?”

She sucks in a breath. “I’m called Flissa, m’lady.”

“Flissa,” Leliana echoes. “Breathe deeply. Tell me what happened.”

Flissa nods, swallows, and begins again. “I serve Lady Alla,” she begins. “I’m her handmaiden. And Enna, she – she’s Lady Megga’s.”

“Lady Margaery’s cousins,” Leliana surmises.

“Yes, m’lady,” she agrees. “And Lady Margaery, she was out in the gardens, with Lady Megga and Lady Elinor, and I think Lady Sansa was there as well, Enna wasn’t clear –” She stops, draws a long breath. “Enna, she was there, Lady Megga asked her along, and they – for a while, they were sitting under this tree, Lady Margaery and Lady – all of them ladies together, just talking, not bothering nobody, and when they got up to walk off, Enna says –” Her breath hitches. “The arrow just – it was there! Sticking out of the tree! Somebody shot it there, but there was nobody around to have shot it, and – there it was, just inches from where Lady Margaery’s head had been!”

Leliana glances suspiciously at the arrow. “Did the guards do nothing?”

“They said they was going to have a look around,” Flissa replies, “and they told Enna she ought to bring the thing to you, but she was too shaken, see, but I happened to be walking by, so they told me to do it.”

“They gave you no escort? What if the archer had struck again?”

The girl seems to shrink inward on herself. “M’lady, please, don’t make me think that.”

Leliana softens. “I am sorry. You said – inches from Margaery’s head?”

“Yes, m’lady. From where it had been.”

She nods. “It seems to me that our mystery archer is skilled enough that, had they wished to do harm to Lady Margaery, or any of her companions, they would have done so.”

Flissa frowns. “Do you think it’s a warning, then?”

“That,” Leliana agrees, “or a jest.”

The frown deepens. “A – a jest, m’lady?”

“The message attached is…” She pauses. “Well, it does not seem particularly threatening to me. But I will bear it in mind.” She picks up the arrow, rises to her feet. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Flissa. And – do not be afraid to come to me with anything you believe may aid us in assuring the safety of the young queen-to-be and her cousins.”

Flissa stands – still trembling, but much calmer than she had been when she entered. “Thank you, m’lady. I mean – I will. M’lady.” She curtsies, glances nervously about, and turns and flees the room.

Alone, Leliana turns the arrow over in her hand, inspecting it for anything that may provide a hint to its origin. It is certainly hand-crafted, but beyond that… she will pass it on to an expert in her employ. She is sure she is paying someone who ought to be able to tell her more than she herself can surmise. She rolls up the parchment again, placing it and the arrow down carefully on her desk, and returning to her chair, her fingers stretched to find the quill she’d set aside. Now. Where was she? Ah – yes.

_…as to the matter of Prince Oberyn’s retinue…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leliana is so wonderful but so tricky to write. and yes, the arrow message is from exactly who you think it's from.
> 
> okay so reviews are the best shit ever. i feel like i should mention that. it's quick, it's easy, it's free: making sure authors feel appreciated for the work they do. it's incredibly encouraging and i'd like to know what you guys like that's happening here so i can do more of that and what you guys don't like that's happening here so i can do less of that.  
> and in unrelated news i'm giving up on trying to pass myself off as a sophisticated intellectual person by using proper capitalization and punctuation in my author's notes. it was bound to happen eventually. anyway. please review. you're the best.


	5. Chapter 5

**ESTHER**

 

* * *

 

At her king’s request, she has broken into her trunk in search of a decent dress.

She did not bring many with her when she made the journey from Highever to the war camps of the North, and fewer fit for court, but she has managed to find something suitable. It is think velvet, well suited for the cold, a dark shade of red, embroidered in bright Cousland silver. The train is long, the sleeves longer; over it, she wears an engraved metal breastplate, more for show than for protection. Her hair, usually bound in a practical but not particularly beautiful bun, hangs much more elegantly today. Her cheeks are framed by loose curls, and the blunt of the back has been pulled up into an elaborate system of braids, courtesy of Dacey Mormont’s calloused but capable hands.

With her feet in her usual dirt-caked boots, hidden by her skirt, Essie sits at King Robb’s table.

“We had not anticipated your arrival, my lady,” Robb is saying. “Had we known, we might have prepared a warmer welcome.”

“Please, your Grace,” their guest replies. “The North is many things, but warm is not among them.” She shrugs off her heavy cloak; the closest of her knights rushes forward to take it from her. “It is just as well. After all, I did neglect to send word ahead.”

“You did,” he agrees. “Why is that?”

She lifts a brow. “Letters can be intercepted, your Grace,” she responds. “Words, once set to ink, can be read by anyone with eyes in his skull. Had you spend your youth in the Red Keep, you would know – their Master of Whispers was devious, with an ear to every wall, and their new Master of Secrets is worse by far.”

“Master of Secrets?” Essie hears a man to her right inquire under his breath.

“The Asshai’i,” the man beside him replies, equally quiet. “The one they call Sister Nightingale.”

Essie straightens herself in her chair, glancing across the room – the tent, rather, but it is large enough, and furnished enough, and warmly lit enough that it ought to be deserving of the word room. It is the largest of the tents, and the only one fit to receive such a visitor as the proud southron lady who stands in its center, her head held high, her golden hair glinting in the firelight, the yellow train of her dress dragging in the dirt. Between the Northern men lining the side of the tent occupied by King Robb’s table and the Mac Tir men who have packed themselves in behind their liege lady, the room is filled to bursting – idly, Essie wonders if Her Ladyship has emptied the entirety of the Eyrie to fill her entourage.

“You call him your Grace,” Dacey calls out from Robb’s side. “Have you chosen a side, Lady Anora?”

Something unidentifiable crosses Anora Mac Tir’s face. “House Mac Tir has declared no allegiance as of yet,” she says slowly. “This war is the North and the Crownlands’ squabble. The Vale stands apart. Lady Mormont, is it?”

“Dacey.”

“Lady Dacey.” Anora clasps her hands behind her back. “I recognize all of the men at the head of this war as kings. That does not mean I recognize them as mine.”

Essie clears her throat, and waits for the southron lady to turn her head to her before she speaks. “You cannot keep your house and your bannermen neutral in all of this, Lady Anora,” she declares. No, not southron, she is not of the south – she must remind herself of this. She looks like a southron lady, speaks like a southron lady, navigates the treacherous waters of the Game like a southron lady – but the woman before her is Warden of the East. “A war of kings shakes all the realm.”

“You think I have not felt its tremors?” Anora’s tone is almost accusatory. “You know my lord father’s fate.”

“We grieve for Lord Loghain,” Robb begins, “but Lady Esther –”

“You did not know Lord Loghain,” Anora interrupts.

“No,” he admits. “But my father called him a good man.”

“He said the same of yours.” She straightens her posture. “Why do you think I have come?”

Alistair is among the Northern men standing guard; Essie finds him in the crowd, and has to suppress a smile. She knows him well enough to know nearly all of his expressions by heart, and with his eyes on Anora, he looks as intimidated as she has ever seen him.

“I had hoped your arrival heralded your intent to join our cause,” Robb replies. “Our houses have long been allies. And we are family.”

“Family,” Anora echoes. “My mother was your mother’s sister, your Grace, this is true – but I do not know you.” She shakes her head, turning to stride two long steps leftward, and then turning again to stride two long steps back. “My house is not Northern,” she says, “but I am your cousin. As such, the crown expects me to swear myself to them, but does not trust me not to join you – and your men expect me to join you, but do not trust me not to swear myself to the crown. I have half a mind to pledge my support to Stannis Baratheon, out of pure spite.”

“I’d pay to see Stannis try to handle her,” Smalljon Umber mutters, and Essie pushes down a laugh.

Robb watches her for a moment longer before beginning, “I believe your father would –”

“I believe that you should not presume to speak for my father,” she interrupts. Essie tenses; to her left, she sees the Smalljon’s hand move to rest over the hilt of his sword. Anora must notice the shift in the bannermen’s demeanor – she is astute, and Northerners are not known for their subtlety – but she continues, unfazed. “I know my father. He would never see our house betray the son of Maric Baratheon.”

“Joffrey is no son of Maric’s,” Robb replies. “He is –”

“A bastard born of incest, yes,” Anora finishes, and her voice conveys the clear, thick boredom of one reciting words that one has heard too many times. “He and his siblings. So Stannis claims.”

“So Ned Stark claimed,” Robb corrects. “You say Lord Loghain told you my father was a good man. Would you name him a liar?”

“A liar, no,” she says. “But where is his proof?” She shakes her head. “I cannot pledge my house’s support to an insurgent king on the word of a traitor tried and beheaded, however honorable he may have been.”

“Why have you come here, Lady Anora?” he inquires. “To give a polite rejection?”

“To make an assessment,” she counters. “This, however, is a polite rejection. House Mac Tir follows the blood of King Maric – nothing more and nothing less. Should I happen upon one with greater claim to his legacy than he who sits the Iron Throne, then I will fight for him. Until then, the East stands with King Joffrey.”

Essie glances past Robb to the Greatjon, the Smalljon, Lady Catelyn, Lady Dacey. The expressions on the faces of the king’s lords and ladies range from hostility to disappointment to distaste. She finds Alistair again – for his part, he only looks more intimidated than ever. It’s cute, in a way. She ducks her head – _we have lost the support of a woman we hoped to call ally, and the region she stands as Warden of_ , she reminds herself. _Now is no time to smile._

“You will not reconsider?” Robb asks.

“Show me the trueborn heir of Maric Baratheon,” she replies. “Then I will reconsider.”

Again, Essie looks past her to Alistair, and sees something she cannot identify cross his face. Strange. She does not know that expression.

“Lady Esther,” Robb calls, and she snaps back to attention, turning her gaze from her lover to her king. “Accompany Lady Anora back to her caravan,” he instructs. “Take three men. Escort her back to the Kingsroad, and then return.”

“Yes, your Grace.” She nods, her hand on her sword as she steps down from his side and crosses the tent, acknowledging Anora with a brief dip of her head. “My lady.”

Anora returns the gesture, the cool fabric of her skirt rippling as she turns to follow her. “Lady Cousland, is it not?”

“Esther will do, my lady.”

“Mmm.” The knight who had taken Anora’s cloak returns it to her, helps her to fasten it around her neck as they leave the tent. “They sing songs of you in the south. The Northern maid with hair as fair as summer’s warmth.”

 _Not quite a maid, my lady._ “Do they?”

She laughs. “No. But you are known.” They reach her carriage, and one of her men opens the door, offers a hand to help her climb inside. She ignores it.

“Allow me a moment to gather my men,” Essie says.

“Lady Esther,” Anora replies, honey-smooth. “Is this escort truly necessary?”

“Likely not,” she confesses. “But I have orders from my king. If he says we are to escort you, then we escort you.” With yet another courteous nod, she hikes up her skirt and turns away; she grabs the first three Cousland men she sees on her way to the stables.

She’s saddling her horse when a hand catches her arm; her head snaps to the side, and she finds Alistair standing beside her, his face intent. “Bring me along,” he says.

“Alistair –”

“I need to speak to you,” he insists. “Bring me along.”

A pause, and then she nods. “Alright,” she agrees, and then calls, “Matthias?”

“M’lady?”

“Give your horse to Alistair and return to your post.”

The soldier seems puzzled for a moment, but he obediently hands over the reins to Alistair with a confused mumble of, “Yes, m’lady.” Essie casts a questioning glance to Alistair and swings up astride her horse, riding out to meet Lady Anora’s caravan with him and her two soldiers at her back. She sends her men to the front of the party, and she and Alistair bring up the back, and the entourage rumbles out of the camp towards the Kingsroad.

“You’re not in armor,” Alistair points out. “What if we’re attacked?”

She taps her breastplate in response.

“That’s for show, Essie.”

“We’re surrounded by a small army of Mac Tir men,” she reminds him. “And I have mail on underneath my dress.”

“…you do?”

She sighs. “Yes. Is this what you wanted to speak about?”

“No.” He draws a long breath. “It’s… not so easy to just say.”

She frowns. “Is it bad?”

“No. Yes. Maybe? No.”

“Alistair.”

“I’m trying, alright?” He sighs, shakes his head. “Right. That thing, what Lady Anora said.”

“She said a lot of things.”

“Yes, but – one thing in particular. About following the blood of Maric Baratheon.”

“I remember.”

“Yes. Well…” He inhales again, slowly, and exhales even slower. “There’s something that you should know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is he going to tell her? you know what he's going to tell her.
> 
> anora is such a joy to write, i've been looking forward to introducing her. if it wasn't 100% clear - house mac tir has replaced house arryn as wardens of the east, and loghain has replaced jon arryn. so he's dead. sorry loghain.


End file.
